I


    Mighty in arms, wert Ragimmund’s ilk,


    Who didst from the north, filch


    All that Aecheans’ held dear, whether it


    Was made of gold, silver or sewn with silk,


    Freely flow’d the blood of his foes not unlike milk


    From livestock, lo! How quick


    His men-folk wert by blade as in the thick


    Of battle! Victories they built as one might lay a brick


    Upon one another, each one ne’er to filch


    And steal from one another, each one kith


    And kindred, each of them quick


    To concord, and even more swift,


    Though born north of the river that cast a rift


    Betwixt the upper and southern lands and cliffs,


    Though barbarous none wert adrift,


    Those who came south, along with westron filth,


    To raid and skirmish fierce as silk


    Is soft, that they might filch


    Gold, lives, fierce and quick,


    Ioan son of Blagoslav, strong as an ox


    Was his arm, thick his shoulders,


    Who when a-horse was always aloft,


    His blows rained down as boulders


    Might upon e’ery foe,


    The very mightiest of warriors,


    Ne’er meek as a doe,


    Their hearts many which smoulders


    Still with valour that can only grow,


    As they did defy the chief most of warriors,


    Of the eastern most tribes to throw


    Themselves forward against courtiers


    And guards a-horse, as accustomed to snow


    As to mud and cliffs, was Ioan who as boulders


    Might be, was inevitable and didst flow


    Through rank after rank of the Dorians,


    His grandfather’s grandfather, fierce and defiant,


    From the most northerly land


    He came, his axe in hand,


    Thus Jusuf arrived from the hinterlands,


    No less great than his forebear, and no less grand,


    Upon e’ery brow he didst brand


    His heavy mark, such was his might that he didst dance


    About the battle throughout the land,


    He and his band,


    More than one strand


    Of Ragimmund’s men in grand


    Manner fought along the sward and land,


    Of the most southerly river-strand,


    These men, chiefs of the east,


    Their wing in flight,


    Swarmed forward that they might feast,


    Upon their enemies, and blight


    Their lands and reap,


    What ought to be their delight,


    That they might reach,


    By way of war of unright


    Manner, those lands west


    Of newest sea, that of little vice,


    This conquest fill’d them with zest


    Of the most hearty and joyful life,


    ‘Twas why they and the rest


    Of those that follow’d them wert rife


    For chaos, anarchy as they didst test


    Themselves against wind, and the rest


    Of the river, and southron men,


    II


    Also from the north,


    Came forth,


    Jonatan the Bold of immense worth,


    He who ne’er didst fold


    Whether in battle or to the mould


    Of other men, such his spirit’s might, this it must be told,


    That in days of olde,


    His was the least controlled


    Of men, yet also the most extoll’d


    Where loyalty and discipline or so the poets told,


    This didst happen in days of olde,


    When men treasured land and gold


    Above life and clothes,


    Only tales told


    By poets of olde,


    Didst they treasure most,


    Many wert the boasts,


    That he had made, none of them gross


    Or squalid, or false, each one of the most


    Superb quality, and didst well decorate the throat


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    Of many bards, who made note


    And learnt both by rote


    As by affection, his many deeds of note,


    That won him many toasts


    On many a nights, and among many hosts,


    So that he was ne’er lost,


    In those days or in later ones, from hosts


    Of the most honourable sort, that he may boast


    The greatest of deeds, and most extoll’d


    Of natures, his was a disposition of greatest


    And most valued worth,


    Chief-most of all warriors,


    Mightiest of heroes,


    His rage still smoulders,


    Who hunted many does,


    Many whom lifted boulders


    And in defiance of all woes,


    That didst visit themselves upon their warriors,


    This, men of all stripes whispers


    Still in admiration of the man who withers


    Rivals and foes alike, the fiercest


    Of all wolves destined


    To Ragimmund swears


    Oaths, the strongest


    Imaginable such was the mightiest


    Of Men’s worthiest


    Of deeds, and courageous name, that not the youngest


    By nature, or by dint of deeds, he was all swears


    One of the greatest,


    Pulled from the bloodiest


    Of fields, as he was from legend’s most famous


    Of tales that stretch to such lengths to be the longest,


    This men didst sing in loudest


    Tones and in the proudest


    Of voices


    Of Jonatan the Mightiest


    Of vanguard captains,


    And the very finest


    Of masters of the blade, and worthiest


    Of foes to the captains


    Of the Varangians, that stood tallest,


    And wielded the steeliest


    Of axes, and wore the finest


    Of hauberks,


    Of Jonatan’s father, he who didst run


    Throughout the forests’ under the suns,


    Across many lands he flung


    Himself, he and his father who wrung


    From many blood and glory, that none


    Could e’er question


    His greatness, so that many songs were sung,


    And many more yet to be spun,


    Noble was he, and about his neck hung


    Until his death, when from his lungs


    And from this mortal-coil he was wrung,


    This his son stung,


    Even as the death of his own father stung


    Him, when in the grips of youth,


    Yet now no longer the youth


    He once was, he flung


    Blow after blow, upon those who stung


    His father to death, and hung


    His battered corpse in far-flung


    Woods, and left cow-dung


    By its feet that it stunk


    And all wouldst run


    From it, yet not Jonatan who wrung


    From them every droplet of just


    And righteous fury, his father ne’er unjust,


    Ne’er one to wrong or fill his lungs


    With corruption, so the bards hath sung,


    Dorian and barbarian they sung


    And sing still, of those lands he didst lunge


    Forward for, and didst hunt


    Men across, and didst overcome,


    III


    From the Wiess-River, surged the wolf,


    Across a great gulf


    He came, might was he full


    Of, even as he was brimful


    Of manly honour, beard thick as wool,


    Ne’er anyone’s fool,


    His hatchet his tool,


    Ne’er to let rage engulf


    Reason, save when in the cusp


    Of glory’s indignation, In a great huff


    He wouldst not allow there a gulf,


    For any to lull


    Away from him, those his axe might cull,


    From this life, if in spirit dull,


    That his chieftain might well rule,


    And that they might drool


    And salivate and feast in true


    Fashion upon the Empire, and all it didst engulf,


    The wolf he was dubbed,


    Ne’er one to be lull’d


    From duty, or bullied


    By gods or men, his honour unsullied,


    Many wert those he harried,


    Many those his sword flurried,


    Swift as a bolt of thunder he hurried,


    Ne’er once dallied


    The warrior, or his father who bloodied


    When arose the need


    Of his chieftain, always he defended,


    Thus Jusuf and his father didst succeed


    Where others failed,


    The two destined to ne’er be sullied,


    Whether it be by honour, or gutted


    By dishonourable murder, both unwearied


    By his nature, he was utterly ruled


    Only and solely, lest he be domesticated,


    As wicked men are wont, and so diminished,


    Lo! The wolf’s steel fangs are bared,


    His barest form of being revealed,


    And his might thus flared


    Across the land, and his foes punished,


    As was right and good,


    Born about the river,


    That didst in olden times deliver,


    Countless the men he didst render


    To naught, by blade that shone silver


    That in the suns’ light didst glimmer,


    And with its own light glitter,


    So that it call’d hither


    All who might seek to pilfer


    Its master’s life, such was his nature,


    So great didst his warrior


    Nature gleam and glitter,


    That men might higher


    Than the heavens elevate their


    Selves and their fellows, by war, nature


    As by the sword’s silver


    Song that didst once echo and titter


    Throughout all the lands, its wielder


    No less grand, and no less austere,


    His father threw himself,


    Into the woods,


    That he might find the Elf


    That was master of many elixirs,


    And better his father’s health,


    Unlike tricksters


    Who desire only wealth


    For themselves, and ne’er to share the tinctures


    Or the good health


    With others,


    Thus it was that the Elf


    Whom he sought, made him the mixtures,


    Yet always there is a price to Elf


    Lore, And the price for the elixirs


    Remains unknown, when his health


    Began to fail, he vanished for parts


    Unknown and remains’ unfound


    To this day,


    This man likewise named


    Jusuf of the Wiess-River,


    Who when Ragimmund first reign’d,


    Served faithfully and ne’er didst differ,


    Always he deigned


    To neither defy nor bicker


    With the man who reign’d,


    Such was how he didst differ


    From others, for his fidelity was not feign’d,


    So that his master


    Great and might, was ne’er pain’d


    To doubt his loyalty, or courage ever,


    Such was the unfeign’d


    And faithful nature


    Of Jusuf, of most famed


    Memory, and his leal father


    Both of whom


    Were cherished by Ragimmund the Grey


    IV


    To the west they stood,


    To the south they look,


    Ne’er their lords they forsook,


    Though they be loathe,


    To before battle fold,


    When south they might flood,


    And spill the blood


    They thirsted for, such was their rude


    Ways, that they thirsted for land, mud


    And to rule


    O’er all that they might draw into their fold,


    Theirs was the bold


    Ways of barbarians, such their rude


    And backwards ways,


    Though ne’er dull


    In wits wert they,


    Those that await’d wert to be full


    Ones, for their brightest days


    Wert they said yet ahead, true


    Many wert the ways


    That they thought this to be true,


    As horses they didst bray,


    So that many civilized men rue


    Their presence there to this day,


    Into this gap plunged


    The warrior who always


    First into danger lunged


    Where another dallies,


    Rarely wert his foes at ease,


    When they sought across the valleys’


    Born by the river that dost feast


    Upon Doria’s green glories,


    Raiding the land with such expertise,


    Pressing to the great worries


    Of the Dorians, who fearful of disease


    And barbarians, fell back in a great flurries


    None keen to perish before these


    Barbarous tribesmen,


    A thousand steel fangs


    Bared and the fields


    Hardly barren rang,


    Many wert brought to their heels,


    More chose more narrow paths,


    Quick to claim a great many yields


    From those that dashes


    O’er vast unwieldy fields,


    Across crimson fields,


    O’er the river,


    Ne’er once yields


    The mighty captains, ne’er to bicker,


    Ne’er to relent in the fields


    Or to let themselves differ


    Whilst they tore through yonder


    Ranks, Cutting here and thither,


    Ne’er failing, they wert to ne’er


    Allow the most bitter


    Of fruits, to dampen and delay


    Them from their advance, and their


    Terrible conquest of yon river,


    By Jusuf the wolf-slayer,


    And Jonatan the axe-wielder,


    Along with Ioan the most legendary


    Of captains, each of them enjoy’d the favour


    Of their ferocious master,


    V


    Thereupon emerald rises,


    Along the thickest bog,


    There where the river arises,


    In defiance of war’s fog,


    Few wert its guises,


    Trickery rarely didst it flog


    Against those that slices


    O’er it and didst mock,


    Its myriad vices,


    Visible as men didst hop


    And flood and in small and great sizes


    Reduced to slop,


    Their foes didst slide


    Down from top


    To muddy low-tide,


    Their cries carried aloft,


    And emerald rise,


    Great was the wroth,


    Of all those near the rise,


    Though dragon-standards


    Held by men fierce as salamanders,


    Of golden make and glitter


    Wert their standards, that dost glimmer


    And shine, bright as the suns’,


    Defiant as lions’ wert the sons’


    Of Doria, who in days of olde


    Sought more than just gold,


    They fought for conquest as for land,


    Seizing by their own hand,


    What they might gain,


    Yet ne’er to inflict mindless pain,


    This though the barbarians held them in disdain,


    And wouldst feign,


    Take what was theirs by right,


    By way always of might,


    They hoped to make a fight


    Of all things, if only to blight


    The savage foe,


    Who unlike a doe,


    Ne’er shied away,


    For an hour or a day,


    VI


    Theirs was the first clash,


    They the first to dash,


    This because they wert most rash,


    Of Ragimmund’s command, this in a flash


    All didst know, from the first to the last,


    From their first breath, to their last rasp,


    That only cowards give way, and men shalt last


    Against all blows, every sword slash,


    That is if they wish to call themselves first and last


    Men, this was their gift, and their curse, as they didst clash,


    Each one of them struck fast,


    Eager not to be the last


    Across the river and in the midst of the clash,


    Lo! They struck thusly in a flash,


    And as mightily as a volcanic blast,


    This was the task


    That they didst cast


    Unto themselves, as many didst amass


    A great many victims along the vast


    Sward of the river, all while they didst canvass


    To their side a great mass


    Of friends and sword-mates, to dash


    The enemy to shreds, and in a rash


    Of hot-blooded nature, he didst thrash


    All who didst rash


    In nature, forward against him dash,


    This men didst chant


    Vociferously was their way,


    Jusuf the Panther who didst lance


    Through many chariots’ that day,


    As they acted as ones fey,


    And didst prance


    Forward their horses quick to bray,


    As they advance


    To flay


    From enemies’ their flesh and to dance


    And demonstrate the old way,


    The old war-dance


    That has long held sway,


    War they went to, that they could prance


    And didst flay


    The whole of the legion, and dance


    Upon their remains, and sway


    The rest from valour to fear, and lance


    From them all courage,


    Or so it appear’d, their fear he didst enhance,


    Even as they didst rally, and bray,


    In the madness


    And show of rashness,


    Went men after men,


    That their foes might be rent,


    Ne’er didst they fail


    To against one another rail


    And rain blow after blow,


    As skilful as a farmer with a hoe!


    Ne’er timid as a doe,


    Swift as the river’s flow,


    None their backs didst bend,


    Nor could they relent,


    Now that they stood


    As in a flood,


    Along the river’s side,


    Many wert those left by the tide,


    Innumerable those that swarm’d


    And relentlessly darken’d,


    The river’s sward


    By way of the barbarian’s sword.